


That Barnacle Brain Don't Bend

by troiing



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M, gratuitous use of jimmy buffett lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:48:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troiing/pseuds/troiing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cee requested Sam/Jack: "Are we really getting that old?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Barnacle Brain Don't Bend

**Author's Note:**

> I believe I originally wanted this fic to fit with the canon timing of Sam going off to Atlantis, so it's set a while after she gets back, roughly. Just a little playing around with these two lovebirds, for the most part.
> 
> The title of this piece in my documents is "ye olde farts," so it seemed fitting to use an equally fitting proper title - from Jimmy Buffett's "Growing Older but Not Up."

“You like it?” she’s asking from his doorway, arms raised a little to model the entirety of the new dress. It’s too bold, too colorful, she thinks, but Jack’s got a pleased sort of gleam in his eyes that makes her raise a brow before spinning once for him.

“Reminds me of the getup you wore in that Mongol village,” he remarks in a reminiscent tone—really though, aside from the color and some beaded embroidery (and the fact that she wears it very, very well), the dress looks absolutely nothing like whatever she wore on… whatever that planet was. His memory’s failing him a little more these days—not that he ever had a mind particularly suited to memorizing series of letters and numbers.

“Oh God. That was—that was years ago. That was twelve years ago. Are we really getting that old?”

“Hey. Speak for yourself, Carter,” he growls at her.

“Jack.” She sounds disappointed, but her mouth is on his, and she’s tugging at the front of his jacket.

“Carter,” he replies stubbornly, hands sliding onto her hips.

“ _Jack_.”

If there’s anybody more stubborn than Jack O’Neill, it’s Samantha Carter. Sure, it took a hell of a time to get to a point where calling him by his first name didn't sound so utterly foreign, but now, with her hands on his chest and her mouth on his, she calls him by the only name she wants to call him and demands that he drop the charades and play along.

He does, because he’s always been Carter’s superior (if only in age and rank), and he’s anything but her superior now. He takes his hands from her waist, cups her face, and pulls away from the kiss. “Sam.”

She’s content now—smiles that crooked smile of hers at him and leans a little into his chest.

“Hey. Don’t you have somewhere to be? Oh—right. Dinner for two? I have a grill to fire up.”

“The grill—Jack!”

“Did I ever tell you I’m glad you decided to grow your hair out?” He’s spun her around, and with his hands on her hips again, he pushes her for the door.

“You forgot to make reservations, didn’t you?”

“Yep.”

“Steaks, beer, and citronella to set the mood, I guess?”

“Of course. I really do like the hair. Make the next dress a little lower cut.” She turns her head warningly toward him, and he shrugs. “Or just lower cut in the back—that’d be… great.” He does like that narrow back of hers.

She laughs at him, making immediately for a seat at the table. She realizes now that all the signs were there upon arrival: a cooler stocked full of beer, in particular. He flicks his bottle cap at her while she kicks her shoes off and curls into the lawn chair.

“There, you see? Restaurants are overrated anyway.”

“Hey, the only thing I’m unhappy about is that you made me dress up for this. I bought this just for the occasion, you know.”

“I like you in a skirt. I also like you when you’re relaxed. Have I ever told you that?”

“Many times, in many different words.”

“Uh-huh. The usual?”

“Uh-huh.” She watches him at the grill. Jack may not be in his prime anymore, but he’s still—ah. Fully capable.

He turns just in time to see her smirk, and she looks away abruptly. A decade of suppressing and averting any remotely longing looks has trained it into her. She immediately realizes it’s silly, and immediately recalls that it’s been a little over twelve years since they met.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“ _Sam._ ” He draws out her name in a half-growl, and she turns her eyes back up to him again.

“I was just thinking about how long it’s been.”

“Since…”

“Since we met.”

“Are you _really_ on the age thing again?”

“Well, yes and no, Sir. Mostly just the—”

“Okay, stop. Every time you use that tone, you call me ‘Sir’. I don’t like it when you do the technical, science geek thing, okay?”

“I wasn’t even talking about—” she tries defensively. 

He gives her a look that screams _case and point._ “Relax, Sam. One day, we’re going to work the uptight out of you.”

“As long as you’ve known me, do you really think that’s gonna happen?”

“Yes. Because if it doesn’t, I’ll call Teal’c and have him beat it out of you.” He’s by her chair now, steaks sizzling away on the grill. “C’mere. You know, one of us may be getting old. Sitting in an office all day apparently makes it catch up to you.”

He’s got his arms around her waist now, and she laughs quietly at him, settling into his chest. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m getting a little softer in places too.”

“Hadn’t noticed.”

“Sure you hadn’t.”

“Sure I had.” Squeezing her a little tighter, he kisses her. “But who am I to complain?”

She snorts quietly, shaking her head at him. Jack, after all, is Jack. “Think you ought to check those steaks?”

“Yeah, probably.”

She kisses him again before pushing him in the direction of the grill. “I’m starving.”

“Yeah? Good.”


End file.
